Compared to the minimalist All Days Are Night, Rufus's seventh album is a circus. But relative to his flamboyant oeuvre, Out of the Game is thoughtful and restrained. It's Rufus "doing" adulthood, with heartbreaking earnestness and arch theatricality. Rufus and producer Mark Ronson put life and pop on stage and examine them from all angles, with blissful, complicated odes to family life, bits of doo-wop (the epic "Rashida"), '70s gold cut with show-tune panache, and diverse guests like the Dap-Kings and Nels Cline. The melodies (particularly the impressionist "Montauk") will haunt your brain.
Brandy's comeback after years of tabloid hell has some of the best beats of her career. With help from producers like Major Lazer's Switch ("Slower") and Bangladesh ("So Sick" and the Chris Brown-assisted "Put It Down"), she makes songs that evoke both futurist neo-wave and classic girl-group R&B, while weaving an effortless vocal performance around her smooth, bird-like trills. Two Eleven's weak spots are its lyrics, which range from the clumsy chorus of "Do You Know What You Have" to the overwrought theme "Scared of Beautiful." But with music this fantastic, you'll hardly notice.
With The MF Life, Melanie Fiona threads the needle between R&B trends. There's atmospheric balladry like the hit single "4 a.m." and "I Been That Girl," a little bit of Auto-Tunin' via the T-Pain duet "6 a.m.," he-said-she-said rivalries with rappers such as Nas (who delivers an excellent verse on "Running"), the pop-rock gem "Watch Me Work," and retro-soul such as "Bones." Fiona pulls this diverse collection off with a consistently impressive performance that rivals Keyshia Cole in her heyday. These songs seem less like experiments than shades of a talented and multi-faceted artist.
It might seem redundant to describe a boy band's debut as youthful. But The Wanted sounds positively drunken with the blissful, fast-paced joy (and pain) of being young. Like their smash single, "Glad You Came," much of the album sounds like the perfect soundtrack for some elated spinning in circles on the dancefloor: earnest vocals about love and staying up late are housed in airy, skipping, perpetually building dance beats. But even the last third, which takes a dramatic turn into relationship territory with "Gold Forever," sounds crammed full of undaunted, danceable hope and vigor.
Had Queen, or Jellyfish for that matter, emerged from the era of emo pop, blog rap and Internet buzz bands, they would surely sound a lot like Fun. Teaming up with producer/songwriter Jeff Bhasker (he works with Kanye), the group unleashes a sophomore album that is over the top and wildly extravagant: genuine art pop. There are times when the sonic richness bursts into sonic decadence, but that's a natural consequence of messing around with rock opera bombast, baroque harmonies and studio chicanery. Speaking of blogs and buzz, Janelle Monáe makes a cameo on lead single "We Are Young."
Oh, Christina. She's always had all the makings of a serious queen bee, yet her entire discography is kind of an epically drawn out identity crisis. Lotus is, unfortunately, still another chapter. Not unfortunately because it's bad, though! There's plenty to like here, from the pretty vocal orchestra in the middle of the dubby/drummy "Cease Fire" to the bouncy, scratchy, Cee-Lo-featuring drag queen strut/Sex and the City anthem "Make the World Move" to her increasing vocal subtlety. But it's all just a little ... unfocused, uncertain. Bonus sasser "Shut Up" points to a potential solid path.
If Adam Lambert's last album was a strut down the catwalk at a glam rock fashion show with Lady Gaga in the front row, then Trespassing is a whirl around a discotheque patrolled by Nile Rodgers -- literally, on blue-eyed funk cut "Shady!" His lyrics are light, but Lambert works it on the first half, bolstering his four-on-the-floor with hipster dance beats, MJ-meets-Queen rock sass and shivering club thumps. With building layers and a falsetto verging on Martha Wash, "Kickin' In" is the highlight. Then things turn slightly toward generic pop filler, but Adam sings it so well, you won't care.
Elle Varner is a restlessly inventive writer, and a singer with a sweetly gritty voice reminiscent of Keyshia Cole and Macy Gray. She mostly sticks to love and loss, but she devises nifty twists, from the slurred chorus of "Refill," to being too shy to speak to a crush on "Not Tonight." On "So Fly," she's a woman who frets over her body measurements, like TLC's "Unpretty." The one thing keeping Varner's debut Imperfect is the production: Save for the Biz Markie-inspired percussion on "Only Wanna Give It To You," its R&B-by-numbers can't keep pace with her outstanding lyrics.
If you know "In the Dark," it might feel like you know Dev and what to expect from her debut: that intimate purr; those familiar club themes; those Catarac swoops. And all that stuff's here, just broken up and sprinkled like breadcrumbs down other, stranger paths. Take "In My Trunk," which kind of sounds like "Bass Down Low"'s crunkier cousin before it meanders off on an art poppy bridge to nowhere. See also: off-kilter girl-group hoots, deconstructed electro-pop, fiercely lyrical braggadocio, and piano jam "Getaway." Dev, it's going to be interesting getting to know ya.
Robyn too earnest and avant for you? Gaga too mainstream? Ellie Goulding too straight-laced? Then Marina's your dance-pop diva. Electra Heart spins all variety of the stuff with sassy, sugar-coated abandon: Epic '80s pop synth-onies cut with operatic drama ("Homewrecker") flow into high-diva neo-disco ("Power and Control"), icy-cool club cuts and broke-down dance-hop bangers -- and all of it is cut with flamboyantly fierce deconstructions of feminine stereotypes. Check out "Primadonna," a "Material Girl" for the modern hipster, but it's "Bubblegum Bitch" that says it all.
This Belgian-Australian indie-pop sensation's third solo album went supernova thanks to the YouTube smash "Somebody That I Used to Know," a lithe, catchy, xylophone-driven post-breakup duet with an infectious air of Tropicália-infused melancholy. Transporting Beck's junkyard-pop cheeriness both forward into the 21st century and backward several decades, the rest of Making Mirrors explores Motown euphoria ("I Feel Better"), walking-on-sunshine '80s pop ("In Your Light") and more current, vaguely chillwave-ian reverie (the lovely "Giving Me a Chance"). Time to get acquainted.
"We've reached euphoria!" announces Usher at the end of his sixth album. In addition to his casually great post-coitus slow jams (including "Climax" and "I Care for U") and electronic pop explosions ("Can't Stop Won't Stop" and "Scream"), Usher offers a frustratingly small window into his life as a pop superstar. He rues over his alienation from friends and lovers on "What Happened to U" and admits to feeling lost on "Looking 4 Myself." Intriguingly, his jumbled metaphors on "Sins of My Father" could be about his divorce... or something else. It's not Confessions, but it will have to do.
Who releases an album of sunny, clubby, up-all-night anthems in November?! Mr. 305, that's who -- the guy who not only lives in Miami, but might just pull off his goal of taking Miami's heat and its year-round party worldwide. Nothing too weighty here, though Pit does get serious here and there -- about really rapping, for instance, on the title track and about things he cares about on almost-feminist pickup anthem "Drinks for You" and the almost-political "I'm Off That." Mostly, though, life's a beach in Pit's world, especially on the Latin-leaning tracks ("Tchu Tchu Tcha" really heats up).
Bruno Mars writes great songs for others, but despite its big hits, his debut felt like B material compared to "F*ck You." On his tighter, more engaging second album, it sounds like he spent time really honing his own sound -- and writing killer songs like "Natalie" that (mostly) avoid his pinch range. As the title implies, Unorthodox Jukebox also shows that Bruno, like any good songwriter, is an avid listener who digs The Police ("Locked Out"), M.J., Prince and Sam Cooke ("If I Knew"). And while making love like a "Gorilla" sounds kinda iffy, the album's drenched in sex and despair. Yummy.
Ellie Goulding is lucky her debut was a sleeper. Because her second album sounds like it was created by a woman immersed in creativity, not consumed with chart position or reiterating the airy pop of Lights. Halcyon is complicated and challenging, its pensive angel choirs and complex beats (often honed from her vocals) are fascinating if almost alienating. Then you get to "Figure 8," a symphony of ebbing, flowing beats; rippling vocal riffs; and swollen drama that drowns any doubts, heralding a second half in which Goulding finds her groove as pop provocateur.
Wherein America's Jazzy Sweetheart unloads a vicious, delicious breakup album full of breathily tart lines ("You don't have to tell the truth/ 'Cause if you do I'll tell it too") and hilariously explicit song titles ("She's 22"). We're a long way from Come Away With Me here -- buffed to an arty, sweetly discomfiting shine by producer/cowriter Danger Mouse, Little Broken Hearts bears both the elegant easy-listening beauty of Jones' earlier stuff and the sublime, guitar-driven acidity of St. Vincent or Sparklehorse. This is a bit of a shock, and a tremendous delight; get a load of "Miriam."
Our little Biebster's 18 and he's got some not-a-girl, not-yet-a-woman-type stuff to prove, y'all. And wow, does Believe do the job! JB zips around the pop Monopoly board, building hotels on everything from dubstep-doused dance-pop to Mrazian acoustic jams ("Be Alright"), and bubblegum retro R&B ("Die in Your Arms") to a lot of Timberlakian blue-eyed funk. What's more, he gets panty-droppers like Ludacris and Big Sean waxing sweet enough to sell cereal. And that's what Believe really is: a balancing act that dances perfectly between his wholesome kiddie pop past and a sexy, grownup future.
Everyone loves Nicki Minaj: She's a self-described Harajuku girl with a potty mouth and a dementedly theatrical fashion sense to match. But do we love her music? Like her 2010 debut, Pink Friday, the new Roman Reloaded straddles her audience's demands for both face-melting rhymes and pop confections. The former camp gets the "HOV Lane" (as in Jay-Z, aka "Jay Hova") and ciphers with Rick Ross, Cam'Ron and Nas; pop fans get clubby house tracks made by Lady Gaga producer RedOne, including the dance-pop hit "Starships." Blending these two identities into a satisfying whole proves elusive.
"We know now we want more/ A life worth fighting for," Santigold dazedly drawls on "Disparate Youth," the standout track from her sophomore album. And she fights hard here, after four years of writer's block and touring burnout, getting Karen O to crash the party on the militaristic dub-punk opener "Go!" and snatching writing and production help from such A-listers as Dave Sitek, Boys Noize, Q-Tip and Major Lazer's Switch and Diplo, whose apocalyptic, bass-heavy dancehall dominates much of the album. Meanwhile, Santi herself sizzles with sass and spunk on songs like "Fame" and "Freak Like Me."
Alex Clare is on the vanguard of EDM-doused dance-pop, thanks to the thunderous, dub-stepping bass of his smash "Too Close" and beats by Major Lazer. But what makes his sound so compelling is that he is, at heart, a jazz-loving, old-soul singer. Everything here is at once coolly chic enough to throb across a club floor and cast a warm, confessional glow. Add to that his very ... Britishness and you get tracks like "Relax, My Beloved," a funeral dirge decked in the strains of a dubby orchestra of synths, and the delicate "Tight Rope," with its barely contained bass threatening to topple it.
This record is awesome. Deal with it. Hedonistic, bratty, absurdly hooky 2012 radio pop gets no better, as Warrior's blazing title track (dig the EDM breakdown) and the deliriously infectious "Die Young" make clear. "Thinking of You" has a Daft Punk-worthy shredding-vocoder solo; "Dirty Love" is a daffy duet with, yes, Iggy Pop. (Rick Santorum is involved.) Plus piano balladry, explicit nods to The Strokes and Phil Collins (!), and lotsa tart, ludicrous quasi-rapping: "Feeling like a saber-tooth tiger/ Sippin' on a warm Budweiser." Album of the Year of Your Friday Night.
After 2011's excellent Nostalgia, Ultra mixtape and the hit "Novacane," Frank Ocean fulfills his promise with this revelatory hour documenting his L.A. life, from the privileged teens running wild on "Super Rich Kids" to the nine-minute stripper tribute "Pyramids" (his most indulgent track). Singer-songwriter introspection (via a guitar solo from John Mayer on the oddly titled "White") and The Neptunes (the Pharrell Williams-produced "Sweet Life") lend substance to Ocean's journey in Hollyweird, but his sympathetic lyrics and warm voice make it intimate and casually brilliant.
Kimbra's debut almost sounds like music we know, but the strange siren from Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know" turns tropes and trends inside out and upside down. The opening track invites you into a weird new world of hoots, odd harmonies and fuzzy popcorn beats, where pop disguises itself as trip-hop show tunes, spaghetti western doo-wop and off-kilter R&B funk, like Mary J through the looking glass -- or like Prince and Nona Hendryx made a girl group of love children together. It's a breathless, at times even exhausting, romp that breathes giddy new life into music's dead horses.
Miguel's second album is drenched in his honeyed, echoing voice. Its airy lightness fuses the synthesized boogie of underground artists like Dam-Funk to the lovelorn sex rooms of R&B. A relentless seducer, Miguel implores the listener to "Use Me"; "I can teach you," he promises seductively. "Adorn" and "Do You..." sound terrific, especially when contrasted with his debut, All I Want Is You, which had a brighter, if equally sex-obsessed, tone. Although he can't quite divorce himself from mainstream R&B's focus on baby-making ballads, Kaleidoscope Dream is still an impressive evolution.
As part of her regular-guy accessibility, Pink's rock star appeal hinges on the fact that she doesn't act like one so much as parties like one. True to form, on The Truth, our foul-mouthed, hard-drinking everywoman does the "Walk of Shame"; waxes sarcastic about whiskey dicks; and generally pours her guts out. But she does it over some of her most interesting songs. Sure, there are strutting anthems about relationships and weekends. But there are also shivery duets ("Try"), malt-shop pop, stalking guitars and "Where Did the Beat Go?," a strange, sprawling mess that Pink sings the crap out of.
